Cat Tyc – from IN PORT.

Cat Tyc

from IN PORT.


Dear Mt. Rainier,

You make good beer and you make me want to give it all up
And be your princess when you call me a peach.

I will climb you someday and take many photos.

Always in shining, it is a greeting. To be in your midst.

I melt beyond what I want. But what the world wants.

Rungs without ladders.

This all started with the love for my mother.

This is no accident.

I just wanted to present her an ideal method for distilling apple spirits.

That is some sort of prophecy.

Because you know. It will happen.

Dead soldier.

I type and retype the prayer.

Tiny enough to fit in a pocket of panic.

We will turn the tape over.

I believe. It has two sides. Metallic flowers.

This exposed fragility does not belong in my hands.


Mount Travers,

Defunding the war should be slithery.

Plant that flag for this state of mind.

How we must.

How we can.

Every penny counts, and that is how the trouble starts. It unfolds into a sidewalk circus, a
melodrama of pocket change proportions, part political stage craft, part whodunit, and
part slow news day.

It’s about private made public, and public made private. All they can do is take pictures. A
man fell at our feet. Five cops jump on top, kidney punching.

Billy clubs.

He yells over and over: “Help me.”

The conversation killer. Numbers. This history is lost to me.


It’s a room of retired ideas.

Another boundary rupture.

You can always blow those whether candles.

My way.

We were dating but now we are muted sunsets.


Mount Travers,

You are austere and daunting. Full of needs and not much desire.

If something falls onto your path between you and it, you have no qualms.

This seems to be the reaction to the glimpse of the new possible self.

The incomplete view.

My half drawn friend, scratched out.

My distant father, his resemblance is vague.

A shirt can’t cover the anxiety.

A bed of love haunt only darkens matters.

You remain nothing but vowels.

Earth moving is definitely becoming a lost art.

I have to remind myself that if I lose the majestic, I miss the point, its just that simple.

The subconscious spilling across my feet, of yogurt, water or blood.

Me & the beetle, we proceed to cross the Broadway Bridge.

return to SHAMPOO 33